Everything matched:
their close-cropped hair of identical umber
framing pairs of round eyes—round with
exhaustion, round in ignorance of weather
or connections.

She’d stayed up silent through how many
nights, fingers pricked, the matching material
of nightshirt and knapsack scratching her

faux-old hands to bind them
in the eyes of strangers, connect them
to each other and to the home
they would forget when they had landed.

We flew to London to get to Florence,
four hushed, identical voices, saved for the
gate or the seatbelt signs or the steward
awkwardly collecting wrappers
in vaguely lemon scented trash bags.